Poem of the Month: March 2024
Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard, by Thomas Gray. LBC Poetry Series #2403
The Latent Book Club Examines Thomas Grey’s somber, but oft recalled poem reflecting Grey’s musings on life, death, and reputation.
Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard
Thomas Grey (1716 -1771)
The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea,
The plowman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
Now fades the glimm'ring landscape on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;
Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r
The moping owl does to the moon complain
Of such, as wand'ring near her secret bow'r,
Molest her ancient solitary reign.
Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,
Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap,
Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,
The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.
The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn,
The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built shed,
The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.
For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or busy housewife ply her evening care:
No children run to lisp their sire's return,
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.
Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,
Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke;
How jocund did they drive their team afield!
How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!
Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile
The short and simple annals of the poor.
The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Awaits alike th' inevitable hour.
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,
If Mem'ry o'er their tomb no trophies raise,
Where thro' the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.
Can storied urn or animated bust
Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?
Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust,
Or Flatt'ry soothe the dull cold ear of Death?
Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid
Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;
Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd,
Or wak'd to ecstasy the living lyre.
But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page
Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll;
Chill Penury repress'd their noble rage,
And froze the genial current of the soul.
Full many a gem of purest ray serene,
The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear:
Full many a flow'r is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.
Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast
The little tyrant of his fields withstood;
Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,
Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood.
Th' applause of list'ning senates to command,
The threats of pain and ruin to despise,
To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,
And read their hist'ry in a nation's eyes,
Their lot forbade: nor circumscrib'd alone
Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd;
Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne,
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind,
The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,
Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride
With incense kindled at the Muse's flame.
Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife,
Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray;
Along the cool sequester'd vale of life
They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.
Yet ev'n these bones from insult to protect,
Some frail memorial still erected nigh,
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd,
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd muse,
The place of fame and elegy supply:
And many a holy text around she strews,
That teach the rustic moralist to die.
For who to dumb Forgetfulness a prey,
This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd,
Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,
Nor cast one longing, ling'ring look behind?
On some fond breast the parting soul relies,
Some pious drops the closing eye requires;
Ev'n from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,
Ev'n in our ashes live their wonted fires.
For thee, who mindful of th' unhonour'd Dead
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate;
If chance, by lonely contemplation led,
Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate,
Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,
"Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn
Brushing with hasty steps the dews away
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.
"There at the foot of yonder nodding beech
That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high,
His listless length at noontide would he stretch,
And pore upon the brook that babbles by.
"Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,
Mutt'ring his wayward fancies he would rove,
Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn,
Or craz'd with care, or cross'd in hopeless love.
"One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill,
Along the heath and near his fav'rite tree;
Another came; nor yet beside the rill,
Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he;
"The next with dirges due in sad array
Slow thro' the church-way path we saw him borne.
Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay,
Grav'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn."
THE EPITAPH
Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth
A youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown.
Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth,
And Melancholy mark'd him for her own.
Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,
Heav'n did a recompense as largely send:
He gave to Mis'ry all he had, a tear,
He gain'd from Heav'n ('twas all he wish'd) a friend.
No farther seek his merits to disclose,
Or draw his frailties from their dread abode,
(There they alike in trembling hope repose)
The bosom of his Father and his God.
Latent Book Club Analysis
Grey wrote this poem when he was in his early 30s. Associated with Cambridge, and anxiety regarding his fears of failure, Grey is one of the ‘least productive poets’, but perhaps one of the most treasured of the 18th century. Offered the position of Poet Laureate (which he declined) Grey would live for around another 20 years after his poem was published, but his musings on finality, failure, how the capable can be overlooked, and how all are humbled on the altar of death, perhaps reflects the worries of his own inner life.
Elegy is surely Gey’s masterpiece. We are a fan of his, generally speaking, loving the whimsical (and hilarious) Ode on the Death of a Favourite Cat, Drowned in a Tub of Goldfishes and the deeply ironic Ode to a Distant Prospect of Eton College. Elegy however, is the clear standout. It can be a challenging poem - it is lengthy, for a start, and contains opposing arguments regarding success, failure and death. Why, we want to know, is the poet wracked by ambivalence? Fortunately, this poem is very accessible, certainly worthwhile, and Grey has left many clues.
Lets begin with the oft- quoted commencing lines:
The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea,
The plowman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me
One can picture the lonely ploughman wandering home, bells ringing in the background, leaving the world to the poet and contemplation. And make no mistake - this is the poet inserting himself, we can be sure. This is his musing. And in many ways, it is Grey’s own elegy for himself.
Shortly thereafter comes the lines Bertie Wooster, beloved fictional buffoon and protagonist of the Jeeves and Wooster series by PG Wodehouse, would often misquote:
Now fades the glimm'ring landscape on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
Bertie may have got his poetry wrong, but the solemnity one feels when the sun is setting, the landscape fading, and all that is left is one’s reflections must surely be a near universal experience. Grey brings us to it in this most arresting, and immediately graspable way.
The following lines are up there with the most quoted from Grey, and right alongside Tennysons ‘nature, red in tooth and claw’ for memorability:
Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife,
Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray;
Such is the quotability of this line, Thomas Hardy took the title for his 1874 novel Far From the Madding Crowd, although Grey uses the phrase to illustrate the quiet and solace of the churchyard in comparison to the strife of everyday life.
Elegy is, at its heart, a melancholic poem that reflects on the lives and deaths of ordinary people buried in this rural churchyard. The seating provides the poet the freedom to meditate on mortality, the passage of time, and the humanity each individual has, regardless of their social status or achievements.
The poem encompasses several themes: chief amongst them, naturally, death. Much like (beloved) Philip Larkin’s Aubade, Grey sets his sights on the inevitability of death. Whereas Larkin was more concerned with death’s ubiquity, and perhaps futility, Grey has a slightly different take; the idea that no-one, regardless of wealth or status, can escape it. Gray underscores this point, recruiting natural imagery to demonstrate the cyclical nature of life and death.
We cannot be the only ones to have noted a level of social criqtique in Grey’s poem. He suggests that some, ‘mute inglorious Milton here may rest’; an overlooked poet who may have achieved greatness, but this potential may have been overlooked due to societal, social and (largely) financial constraints.
The poem is written in heroic quatrains, rhymed ABAB, using iambic pentameter. This gives the poem its elegiac feel, and adds to the formality. This is an elegy, rather than something lighthearted, or introspective after all. Elegies have always been an outlet for the heroic mode, take for example Brutus’ Friends, Romans, Countrymen speech in Julius Caesar - although this speech famously wasn’t written to praise, it is nonetheless very much in the heroic mode.
Despite being written in the 18th century, Elegy contains universal themes. It resonates with us today due to the gentle treatment and empathy the overlooked receive. This concern for humanity Gray expresses reflects perhaps more fundamentally, our own desire to build a degree of existentialist meaning in our lives. Gray reminds us that such endeavours are not futile, irrespective of how they are ultimately remembered.
Elegy yields more insight on each successive reading. It is an excellent poem, and easy to commend.
Before you go…
Read more of our Latent Book Club Poetry Series
Check out our long form poetry analysis:
Or read our entire back catalouge in our poetry archive.
Read Our Catalogue of Long Form Literary Criticism
Read the Latent Book Club’s ever growing archive of long form literary criticism for free, including:
Iris Murdoch’s triangular The Bell
Henry James’ Gothic Horror Classic, The Turn of The Screw
John Updike’s tale of selfishness, dissolution and frustration, Rabbit, Run
Or see of our full range of literary criticism in our archive.
Subscribe to The Latent Book Club for free
Hey there, Gray Fanatic! Want more poetry analysis? We feature a new one every month. Make sure you don’t miss them, and other great recommendations, by subscribing for free to The Latent Book Club.